Even when I’m knocked out of my usual routine, I fall quickly into a new one.  Such has been the case with my temporary assignment.  I head out of the apartment at 9:30 am, descend into the subway at 28th and Park, and emerge a few minutes later at Canal and Lafayette.  The land of a thousand smells, few of them good.  I walk to the courthouse and stop at the coffee truck.  (If I keep this up, I wonder if he’ll know my order and have it waiting for me just like George on 28th and 1st?  Or is he in a spot filled with too many transients to bother memorizing people’s preferences?) Inside the courthouse, I take the elevator to floor 6 and head to my throne up front. There, I drink my coffee, greet my fellow jurors as they arrive, and bury myself in my book.

Then the cases start.  Drugs, robberies, weapons, more drugs.  Drugs, drugs, drugs. I know now how much bliss ignorance provided before this all began: I walked the streets of the city, day or night, reasonably certain of my safety and fearing, at the most, a belligerent/drunk homeless man.  Now, I see drug dealers in every shadow; knives beneath jackets; zip-lock baggies of coke peeking out of pockets.  One of my fellow jurors was approached by a guy right outside of the courthouse during our lunch break who asked her if she wanted to buy a dime bag.  Seriously?!  Speak of the devil and he will appear, I guess.  Bearing weed.

But now that we know about the bad guys, we also know about their counterparts. The countless undercovers who roam the streets with the dealers, busting them each day.  To look at them, you wouldn’t guess they’re on the right side of the law: jeans and sweatshirts are among the dressier outfits we’ve observed them sporting.  And the line continues to blur: we’ve learned that there is a number called a NYSID–New York State Identification.  Law enforcement officials (the detectives, undercovers, court employees, DAs, etc.) all get one.  So do the criminals.  Basically, anyone who gets fingerprinted by the state.  Which for the most part is those two groups:  the right side of the law, and the other side.

After our lunch break, we settle in for more cases.  This is when my attention wanes the most.  This is when I admire how well my ring picks up the light from the courtroom window; when I consider which Caribbean island would be the best spot for a honeymoon; when I count the days until our apartment lease is up (now that we settled with the landlord and aren’t getting evicted); when I am thankful I’m just the assistant foreman and not the real deal because what is this case about again?

Then we get a break and I dive back into my book.  After awhile, K. comes in and lets us know we’re done for the day (“Goodbye, jurors!”).  We ask her if she’ll be working tomorrow (she’s our favorite warden) and she says it depends on whether she wins the Mega Millions.

Me, I feel like I already have.  I’m planning a wedding (and, even better, a honeymoon), reading books I love, and missing work.  I think I might cry when jury duty is over.